


A Bed of Straw and Silk

by OnlyOneWoman



Series: Thaw [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alliser Thorne is an asshole, Canon-Typical Violence, Castle Black, Character from the books, Cold Weather, Cuddling & Snuggling, Jon Snow Knows Nothing, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow catching feelings, M/M, Maester Aemon knows stuff, No Spoilers, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Satin Flowers knows too much about the cruelty of men, Sick Character, The Night's Watch (ASoIaF), Threats of Rape/Non-Con, for now, of some sort, the wall - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 11:09:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18659236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyOneWoman/pseuds/OnlyOneWoman
Summary: This is my first fic ever for GoT and I was heavily disappointed that we got Olly instead of Satin Flowers in the tv series, so here's some platonic but not quite brotherly feelings stirred up by a bedbound Satin Flowers. This is set around book three or four or, in the show, before Maester Aemon dies.Oh, and I almost never make canon compliant stuff, just so you know :) Comments are always appreciated!





	A Bed of Straw and Silk

**Satin**  
He doesn’t notice it at first. Between the practise and the biting wind, Ser Alliser Thornes sneers and the sometimes tentative, sometimes grabbing fingers in hidden corners, the old jokes and joyless laughters, the cold quarter seems like nothing.  
  
There are furs, after all. Furs and braziers and shutters, mulled wine and Dolorous Edd’s stews, but it’ not Oldtown and while Satin has little reason to miss his days at the whorehouse, with the flustered, grunting customers, the greedy madam and catfights over the few wanted guests, he does miss the sun. He misses going to bed and leving it with smooth, soft movements. At first all the new things were occupying his mind from it, but now, the cold of night is running through his veins like the opposite of Dornish wine. And it’s not only due to the weather.  
  
While Dolorous Edd, Grenn and Pyp treat him with something akin to acceptance and Samwell Tarly is outright friendly albeit reserved in his own way, Satin knows that most of his new “brothers” are that only by name, half of them ready to throw him to the wolves and the other half thinking of ways to bury their cocks in whatever hole available on him. Unlike wood for the fire, you don’t need no axe to get a taste of that warmth. But the Commandor doesn’t approve and his brothers respect him – well, most of them. Those who don’t, are few.  
  
Granting a boy whore the honor of a steward title, doesn’t sit well with Ser Alliser, who seems to have an endless stash of ill words to throw in Satin’s direction whenever there’s an opportunity. Satin doesn’t bite back, even if he sees how the sinister old man welcomes it, because you don’t spend eighteen years as a whore’s son and four of them a whore yourself, without learning a thing or two about men. Some wishes aren’t meant to be granted.  
  
Warmth, apparantly, is one of them. With Jon and half a dozen of the men away on a mission, Ser Alliser is in command and when the men joke about how the winter’s already coming with their temporary commander, the days after Jon’s, Dolorous Edd and Grenn’s departure, wipe all remaning jokes and smiles off Satin’s lips.  
  
The Lord Commander’s chambers are cold now. No idea to waste more wood for the fire than necessary, when winter’s only just begun, Ser Alliser says, and the looks from those brothers hearing the joke about Stark’s family motto, are cold too. There is warmth, they say. All Satin has to do, is leaving the empty quarters and when he, the fourth night with the Lord Commander away, enters it and finds one of his blankets missing, the tempation almost wins. Almost.  
  
He can’t steal wine or ale, Dolorous Edd is far too good with rations and will notice something being off once he’s back, so water will do. Heated water for his chest and heated stones for his bed. On the fifth day, Satin’s tears are the only things hot, as his cramped, cold limbs crack and protest when he raises from his bag of straw. He assumes it must be dawn, but the castle is quiet and not even a sliver of daylight is reaching through the window. He can no longer feel his toes or fingers and he’s not sure why he’s crying.  
  
There are steps then and he quickly strokes the tears off his face. The door opens and there’s a blunt curse.  
  
“Cold like a white walkers cunt in here… Gods… Oi, pretty boy! Get a fire going in here and heat up some water. The Lord Commander is back.”  
  
It’s Pyp, who leaves as soon as he’s given the order, but Satin doesn’t move. He’s so cold he wonders if he’s actually turning into one of the white walkers. _Oh, how he misses Oldtown… The sun, the glittering water, the cats sunbathing on the cobblestones…_  
  
“Satin? Satin, do you hear me? Where the fuck is the coal and woods? _Satin?_ ”  
  
**Jon**  
His steward is laying white and stiff in bed, covered in furs and with a fire as well as a brazier fighting the crippling cold from the young man’s limbs. Jon empties a second cup of mulled wine, his own freezing a discomfort so small right now, he doesn’t even feel it. He’s worried and furious and tomorrow he will have to punish the men responsible.  
  
Satin looks so fragile, Ghost appears gigantic in comparison. There’s no need to question why his men would treat their brother like that, but it’s still cruel and unacceptable. On the wall, the lives they once lived are to be, if not forgotten, so at least left behind. What Satin did or didn’t do back in Oldtown, should bear no significance now, but once the leader of this pack is gone, the wolves will turn to whoever is second, and Ser Alliser has made it all clear what he thinks about having former whores in the ranks.  
  
For all that old bastard cares, Satin could’ve been thrown to the White Walkers as peace offering. One mouth less to feed, instead of as now, one less mouth to fuck. Jon is pretty sure no one has went any further than crude jokes and indecent grabbing with the boy, but sometimes the threat of what might happen, is bad enough and while Jon doesn’t consider himself innocent or even very decent these days, he’s a Stark at heart, if not by the name. Father would never accept to treat a boy or man, woman or girl, highborn or servant, in this manner. The leader must care for his flock, especially the most vulnerable ones.  
  
Jon can’t help but take the former whore’s hand. Satin may be a hardened worker now, but his palms are still soft despite the callous skin. Too pretty for a boy, yes. But he’d been just as vulnerable had he been a girl. Jon resists an urge to stroke away a strain of hair from the boy’s face. Ghost sighs, his fuzzy body curled around the sleeping one. Well, at least no one will bother him now. Pretty and fragile as can be, only a fool will try and get his hands on a former whore who’s being guarded by a dire wolf.  
  
**Satin**  
It’s his lungs that hurt the most. Every breath a dagger through his ribs and Maester Aemon, who’ve been bedbound himself for a few days from a cold of his own, is treating him with some nasty brew that burns his throat and turns his stomach.  
  
“You’re resiliant, little brother. Fragile looking like a rose, just like your name, oh yes, but there’s strenght in you, boy. Winter’s not here yet, Satin Flowers.”  
  
Maester Aemon is blind, he doesn’t know how Satin looks, but hands know features and the maester’s old, skinny hands are coarse but kind. They’re as good as drying tears as they are preparing brews.  
  
“I too missed home, boy. King’s Landing… I once thought there was no greater place in the world of the seven gods. The light air, the sun and blue sky… Ah, the fountains in the gardens, the bluebirds singing, the girls in flowy dresses… How naïve was I to swap it all for buckets of frozen water and the ravens croak into the long night…”  
  
The cup put to Satin’s lips has a vile taste, but he’s had worse things in his mouth for even more vile reasons and he swallows dutifull, hoping for relief. It’s only now as he feels the mattress underneath isn’t the usual one of straw, but a soft one, used for highborn guests. A kindness not suitable for a whore, former or not, but the strong brew works it’s magic before he can think about his current quarters and he’s off to sleep again, dreaming of that blue sky Maester Aemon painted for him.  
  
**Jon**  
As punishment for the treatment of Satin, Ser Alliser and everyone who knew about the steward’s condition yet didn’t interfer are sentenced to three additonal watch nights each, in his place. There are some grumbles and low curses, but the amount of brothers disgusted by Satin’s former life, is less than those appalled by Ser Alliser’s treatment of a man that didn’t do anything to deserve it, and also has proven his worth more than once. Dolorous Edd is particularly displeased and Maester Aemon even more so. Satin Flowers is confined to bed rest in the Lord Commander’s more comfortable quarters and Jon gets a small bed in there for himself.  
  
The straw mattress makes Jon appreciate his usual bed a lot more, but he’s not jealous of Satin, despite also having Ghost as a bed warmer. He’s not jealous, because the boy is coughing through the nights, an awful, wheezing sound that remembers of the north wind itself. And after a few nights, the boy starts getting ridden with nigthmares as well.  
  
Satin, who’s rarely speaking about his past, talks in his sleep one night to someone named Varon, urging him – or her – not to leave, to have mercy, to not throw him out and the man who combs perfume into his short, neat strip of beard, is clenching his fists, throwing himself in the bed as a tortured animal. Ghost’s presence doesn’t help now and so Jon leaves his bag of straw to sit by Satin’s side.  
  
He’s holding his hand at first, awkwardly stroking the sweat drenched curls, stucked to the boy’s forehead but it only helps so much when Satin fidgets aorund, whimpering quitely in his sleep and four hours before dawn, Jon’s had enough. He leaves his own mattress and, with only a moment of hesitation, lays down next to his shivering squire.  
  
He curls around him, all too aware of how unused he is to intimacy of any kind, and the former whore who must know all there is to know about it, finally stops fidgeting. Jon looks at Ghost, but the direwolf does not know nor reckognize the laws and customs of humans, so there’s no judgement in his red eyes. As Jon’s watch is temporarily over for the night, Ghost starts his, facing the door and Jon knows that no one will catch them off guard. Not this night.  
  
**Satin**  
“You look better, little brother.”  
“Maester, with all do respect, you’re blind.”  
“And you should thank the Seven for that, and the fact that I’m too old to take rude boys over my lap, Satin Flowers. With your profession and name, one would assume you knew your way with words.”  
“My profession did make good use my mouth, Maester, but not necessarily my words.”  
“Impudent as you are, I’m too old to be bothered by the sharp tongues of wounded boys. Tell me, Satin Flowers, what were you offered to stay warm at night in the Commander’s absence?”  
  
He’s not prepared for that question at all, it takes him completely off guard and in this vulnerable state, there’s no trace left of the whore who could smile like a ray of sun even when his heart was frozen in fear. He’s been with so many men and women, some turning his stomach, others making him fear life almost as much as death, but none of them had Ser Alliser Thorne’s grim eyes, stripping him to the bones with nothing but disgust.  
  
The former knight has made offers, too smart to force Satin openly, but the stolen warmth had a purpose and whatever Jon Snow might think, having Satin freezing to death wasn’t it. The thought of crawling into Ser Alliser’s quarters and do his bidding for a scrap of warmth, knowing how he and the rest of the men would look at him afterwards, was more than he could take. Even a whore has his prize and that one was too high.  
  
“You should’ve come to me, little brother. I could’ve asked for your assistance, to empty my chamber pot and make sure I kept breathing. A mattress by my fire would’ve been safer in every way, but I’m not gonna scold you, Satin Flowers. Not now that you’re thawing again.”  
  
He makes a small laughter that sounds strange, coming from the old man’s mouth.  
  
“The gods know we need every flower, in whatever form, when the long night comes. Rest, little brother. My watch isn’t over yet.”  
  
**Jon**  
He’s so tired he’s all but stumbling into his chambers. Satin is asleep, as is Maester Aemon on the extra bed. Sam had tried to urge him to go back to his own bed, but the old man can be stubborn when he wants to and remained in place. Jon puts a few more woods on the fire for the maester’s and Satin’s sake, before he removed his boots and jacket.  
  
Satin has a little more color on his cheeks now, but it’s from fever rather than health and when Jon puts the light out and gets into bed, the man is instantly searching for him in his sleep. It’s not as restless as previous nights, but the need for comfort is there and at this point, Jon doesn’t even have it in him to worry about it.  
  
He’s never felt like this, having another _man_ in his arms, innocent as it is. Sure, brothers as he was a child and, of course, father’s arms, but Satin isn’t blood, he’s his brother only in name and despite the illness, Jon can still feel a hint of the scent of flowery oils in the dark curls. He knows nothing about this. Unlike most of his brothers, he’s not had a taste of what he swore to abstain from. He’s a virgin bastard, sharing bed with a former whore, with a blind maester as chaperon. The gods must have a very special sense of humor.  
  
“He needs you, Jon Snow. And you need him.”  
  
Jon jumps a little, but Satin stays asleep. The maester’s voice is low, but clear from the bed by the fire.  
  
“Maester?”  
“You heard me, Lord Commander. The boy, he’s not made for the winter. He’s a summer’s child put to watch over the long night while the fat and drowsy men with pockets filled with gold sleep peacefully, unconcerned about their part in his road to the North. You hold him for as long as you can, Lord Commander.”  
  
Maester Aemon makes one of his small chuckles when he hears Jon's slight shock in the darkness.  
  
“Tell me, Jon Snow, for what purpose are we keeping the winter at bay, if not for the flowers to blossom?”


End file.
